


Rebirth

by ferporcel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Collaboration, Gen, One Shot, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:11:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferporcel/pseuds/ferporcel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the filth comes the purification of a necessary rebirth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rebirth

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Renascimento](https://archiveofourown.org/works/388502) by [ferporcel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferporcel/pseuds/ferporcel). 



> **Disclaimer:** It’s not ours; it’s all J.K. Rowling’s.
> 
> This is a tag!fic written by ferporcel and miateixeira during one of life’s daybreaks. It was written in the wake of the events of _Half-Blood Prince_ , but it’s not outdated by the arrival of _Deathly Hallows_. We thank Potion Mistress and Annie Talbot for beta-reading it. :0)

Impregnated in the flesh, resonating outwards and inwards, invading the air, the being. Filthy.

Everything about him stank of pain and hatred. The memory of the body falling, tracing a loop in the air as he slammed into the parapet and then over, plummeting, repeated itself endlessly on his retina while the tepid water hit his shoulders.

Water that continued downwards to burn and wash the blood stains stalking the open wounds. Water that will never get to the dark stains which obscured his soul. Impurities that hurt more than claws of indomitable beasts. 

Of little importance these wounds and things of the flesh are. Of little importance is the dried blood, staining his body, if what he hears night and day to no end in his mind is that voice inducing and charging an absurd, insensate fidelity. Over all these rank, bloody marks that are inflicted to the body, every time he sees himself face to face with the Evil, he plays a role more damaging to the spirit, faking abandonment, as if his soul accepted a monster inside itself.

A beast. An animal which he was and didn’t want to be anymore. A soul. Only a poor soul of imprisoned free will, tied to the debts of the past. But the chains were cut now! He didn’t want to be this rank thing. His filthy soul needed to feel the water, too. His polluted mind needed the cleansing of what passed repairing to the innocence. 

The dark lather he brushed with hatred over his body went down in a concentric spiral by the grate. The black hair stuck to his face sodden with water and tears. The smell of pain and soap, black as the night, mixed in his senses, making him gasp in a desperate relief.

He wouldn’t mind. He didn’t even care. He wanted to explode in contained emotions, to feel that the lather carried more than sweat and blood. Severus couldn’t bear to carry the world’s rottenness on his back, quietly, anymore. That the blackness of the suds reflected what purged from him with the tears that joined it. That the perfume which inundated him on the outside penetrated the skin barrier and alleviated his senses, so addicted to all that stank around and inside him for so long.

A muffled scream broke the steady drone of the falling water, cloistered still, repressed between clenched teeth of a man in expiation. With the forehead resting on the cold tile, Severus decided within himself, with the little that still remained of his sanity, that there would rest the pain and doubt. Through the grate, in the water, in the dark blue lather spread on the floor, in the blood smell, in the night’s perfume of the black soap, on the cold walls that testified his despair for freedom and peace.

When all the water was gone through the grate, he wanted his soul clean, his conscience less voracious. The scream that burst from his chest was louder, less muffled, cleaner. The filter of apparent indifference was pulled apart, and all that was kept there had flowed out to mingle in the perfumed water. A sob of liberation of all that had got stuck. Courage! Courage to break and remain whole. Rebirth from the old, smelling of new.

Long minutes were spent like this, the soul draining of a stubborn evilness; the bruised, dirty blood removed from the mind, from the heart and the body. Only the new beginning remained. The memories wouldn’t destroy him further; they would be living proof of his resignation. It had been as Albus wanted it. He’d given. He’d been loyal and wouldn’t forget anymore. Screw the whole world, as always. He was again his own master.

He shut off the faucet calmly, with no need of rush or force, and extended his hand, reaching for the soft towel hanging of the peg to the side. A warm sensation took over the air around him. Something comforting, intimate and complete. He lowered his head to feel, looking to his own feet on the bathroom’s carpet, still absorbed in the sensation.

Little by little the towel met his face.

Every soft touch of the towel brought a new sensation. He took a deep breath through the comfort of the cotton he held against his face, after so long, he was capable of feeling some pleasure over the simple gesture. He pulled the towel, massaging the sensitive skin of his still open chest. The water drops were absorbed by the cotton, but the perfume remained on him, his, for a while longer.

Even the marked arm could feel the touch free of judgment, involved in this moment with no masters, no weights, renovating. Rebirth without beginning again was difficult, but it couldn’t be impossible.

Across from him, facing him in the mirror, was himself. Naked, whole, ready. With or without remembrances, it mattered little. He was himself again. He looked for a long time, appraising, before putting aside the fluffy towel impregnated with the bit of peace and strength he had created for himself in order to be able to go ahead without collapsing on the road. It should be enough.

He dressed in the dark robe in front of the mirror, checking the scars left on him during the last reunion – on the chest, hips, going down through the thigh. Only marks. More marks and only. Their eyes met – reflection and man – both confident in the truth that reunited them whole in one person.

Leaving the pain behind, he left the bathroom; the light of the room cutting out his silhouette as shadows on the wall. The lather still went through the grate, taking dirt and past together. The towel rested in a corner, wet with proof of the change. Into the room walked a man ready for a new stage of a disgraceful life. The Dark Lord would Summon him in the morning, he was sure. Until then he would already have forgotten the real meaning of what he’d done today, and the only reminder of his past life would be the floral perfume of the bath that washed his soul.


End file.
